Next of Kin
by Zwoosh-K9
Summary: Not much was learnt about Ian, only that he was Alex's uncle and guardian. But what if that wasn't all? Spies lead many lives, and one of them is demanding answers. Will feature K-Unit. ON HIATUS!


**If your reading this; thanks for your time. Please feel free to review because all comments are appreciated. **

**And I'm sorry to those of you who might be fooled by my clever deviousness; John Rider (Alex's father) does not feature. Instead a identically named character called John Rider (kid in this chapter) does. I'llleave you to make of that what you will. **

**For now, enjoy.**

_I was at school when they came; the Police had knocked on my door just as I was in my final lesson. Maths, I think. Anyway, I didn't know this at the time, obviously, and so I never found out until I got home. _

_It was Adelaide who told me eventually – you know that. When I got home she was the only one who knew, and it was her unfortunate duty to inform me. She's my nanny, if you remember. Well, I say nanny; I mean more of a caretaker, despite her being originally hired to look after me when Dad was away. But I'm getting off course. The Police had left by that point, but I didn't know that either. I didn't even notice the solemn quiet in the house, which was weird, because I usually noticed most things. But this I didn't._

_She was sitting in the lounge when I found her, perched silently on the edge of the leather sofa, her back arched straight and upright. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, the left over the right. I can remember the details so well; she had been crying, I certainly noticed that. The red, puffed rings around her eyes brought out the heaviness to them. She had been keeping calm and collected for me; she had been waiting for me to come home. _

_When I entered, my voice was caught with a half formed greeting. I had actually been in a good mood, I think. I had just aced a test at school; the one Dad had been pushing me for ages, just before he went to Cornwall for a business trip. His accounting took him all over the country, but I hardly complained. But I'm missing the point – I was on a high, and I was just about to be brought back down to Earth._

_I finally registered the dried tears down her face, those bloodshot eyes and the defensive posture. She stared at me, her gaze level and unyielding. As I tried searching her eyes for an answer, she bore through mine with severity. Something bad had happened, whether it was some fault of mine or something else, at the time I did not know. I keep telling you that; I never knew until then._

_She said my name, drawled it more or less. Half caught between a sob and an acknowledgement. She welled up on that instant, her grey eyes streaming with tears as they flowed as freely as they had before. I didn't think; I just acted. I strode up to her and hugged her. She clung onto me, but the action felt false – like I shouldn't be doing this, as though it should have been the other way around. It may have been instinct. It could have been a premonition. Whatever it was, it just didn't feel… right._

_She held onto me for what stretched out to be hours. I just held her there, her tears wetting the shoulder of my uniform, her hand rubbing up and down my back furiously. She kept mumbling incoherent things, which turned out to be words of comfort; the irony of situation being that she needed the comforting, and not me. I'd just like to stress at this point I still didn't know. _

_It was late evening when she calmed down once more, stifling sobs of anguish and smothering her weeping. She brushed the backs of her hands across under her eyes, smudging the already ruined make up. Stray locks of straggled black hair crept down her face, her pale white skin not showing a single wrinkle. She had headed west looking for the elusive 'American Dream', and somewhere along the line become my caretaker. Not that I'm complaining; she's a remarkable individual._

_Again, I'm getting off the subject. So she had pulled back giving me some space finally, and she pursed her tiny lips together, suppressing another sob. She told me then, nearly four hours later she told me Dad had died. I still don't think I forgive her. She should have told me sooner, come to school to collect me, something other than sit and wait for me to offer her support. I was devastated, and she had exploited that._

_We got a letter from Dad's bank the next day. They didn't even have the nerve to come in person and pass on their condolences. All we got was a few measly lines printed on cheap office paper with a green stamped name – 'Alan Blunt' – on it. I can't remember what the letter said, something about 'Your father Ian was a good man,' and the sort; I can't exactly recall it in detail. It did mention something about a car crash, and how they sympathised with us over our tragic loss of such a patriotic man, the selfish jerks. They kept my Dad away from me for months on end, whilst I sat at home twiddling my thumbs. He wasn't even patriotic, for God's sakes!_

_What I was even more shocked about was that he had died in a car accident. Apparently, according to some unknown person who thought they knew how to do their job, Dad hadn't been wearing a seat belt. And for the record, no matter what you say or tell me, that's still blatantly wrong to this day. Dad always wore a seat belt. He was the most careful driver you could ever hope to meet. Even driving me round to the corner shop he forced me to wear one. It was indignation of the highest calibre, but he still made me do it. _

_After that, life went on as normal. No world flipping upside down, no sudden depression. I guess, since he was never really around, we never really connected. It was surreal, walking into school when Adelaide finally let me go out of the house and acting as if nothing had happened. I got stared at, sure, but that wasn't anything new; I was always the outcast anyway. But I always argued about his death. I mean, I was sad that he was gone, I guess, but what I was more concerned about was his death itself. I kept on whining and moaning for so long that eventually the school's counsellor suggested I go to you and have my pockets bled dry of cash. I find it quite annoying how you charge such extortionate prices for one pathetic hour a week just to talk about my feelings when there was such an injustice hanging right over my Dad's grave. I hadn't even seen his grave for God's sakes, and you said I was still grieving over the loss of my father! _

_So, long story short, Dad died in a collision in Cornwall with a lorry. End of. No body, no evidence, no trial, not even a will; nothing. We still haven't heard a peep from the American Embassy in England. And the lovely Bobbies over the Atlantic won't give us answers. That's why I'm writing this letter, Dr Montgomery; your sessions have been a waste of time. I had accepted my Dad's death a long time ago. But what I didn't accept, you see, was how he died. So Adelaide and I are travelling to England to investigate. It's all very exciting, almost like I'm James Bond or something._

_With that now said, I'd like to cancel my regular visits indefinitely. I'm sure we're going to save a bundle now, which will help to pay costs of staying in London. _

_Yours sincerely, _

_John Rider_

_P.S. I'm probably going to hand you this in person. Prepare to sigh._

Dr Montgomery sighed, true to the letter's word, the paper clutched in one obscenely hairy hand. He removed his reading spectacles, half moon lenses glinting in the soft glow of the setting sun. The glasses were dropped, caught only by the thin silver chain strewn around his neck, dangling as he scratched at the thick walrus moustache. He laid the letter down on the desk, perfectly aligned with the stationery and countless of other documents. John sat silently opposite him on the other side of the desk, hanging on an office chair, watching intently for his reaction. Cars were passing idly by outside, the noise seeping in through the open window. The room was blandly decorated, the wall behind Montgomery plastered with framed certificates and tacky wallpaper. The carpet was threadbare, stained with dying spills of coffee and chewing gum. The room screamed depression, much like its many occupants who had sat within its walls. They too had been troubled and tormented by their own inhibitions; it was the same reason John was here. Today, on the exact date, was one year since his uncle's death. That was also one of the causes for him taking the sudden plunge, and for him to risk a trip to England to get answers. Adelaide had been easy to convince; she had always wanted to go to England and see the sights. She would be quietly pleased that she could tag along with him. She had accepted guardianship, but had acted more like an aunt rather than a mother.

"Is there no way I can argue against this?" Dr Montgomery spoke up after a while of terse silence. His brown eyes were weary, exhausted almost. To him, this was the same scene of defiance he had watched countless of times before. John Rider resisted to reason, even refused it. It was what the truth said and that was that. There was no grey in his world of black and white.

"Nope," John chimed, true to what the doctor expected of him. He beamed mischievously, showing nothing behind the cheery, forced smile; a trait Montgomery had found both perplexing and insufferable. John had to be his hardest case,

"I understand that you have accepted your father's death; that much you have made clear to me rather forcefully. But this is nonsense about the circumstances about his demise. Why do you persist in pursuing these wild irrational thoughts when there is nothing to obsess over?" John sighed himself, hearing once more the typical, patronising jargon his counsellor liked to slather him with. This was a dance of intellect and stubbornness for them; Montgomery would ask the questions, and John would answer them. Neither made it easier for the other and neither would back down.

"It didn't make sense. None of it did. The English Police and embassy refused to cooperate with us, and his death was stupid. He always wore a seat belt," John was defiant again now, his back arching as the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. These sessions always brought out the worst of him; today was supposed to be the triumphant victory over the quack doctor, not another drawling hour of monotony.

"John, we have been over this many times," Dr Montgomery said softly, uncrossing his legs and sitting up, leaning forwards, "The collision was with a lorry. A _lorry._" He emphasised for point, "I doubt a seat belt would have saved his life. I doubt it even could. And perhaps your father had simply forgotten in a rare occasion. Perhaps he had, like millions of others, forgotten to wear for one unfortunate day." John shook his head furiously,

"No, I've checked," he said eagerly, "A seat belt can increase the chances of survival no matter what the collision. Besides, he never forgot. He was careful."

"No matter how cautious a man may be, he will always be human. And humans are prone to error. It is in our nature to make mistakes." He huffed again, bristled even when John rolled his eyes, "Very well then, let's suggest hypothetically that your father did wear his seat belt; what then? How would you go about searching for your non-existent evidence? I would remind you it _is_ a cold case – there won't be much left to find."

"I'll find a way," John said affirmably, tilting his chin up in defiance. He hated the doctor – no, worse, he _loathed_ him. The man was irritable, old fashioned and belittling. He could barely stay sat in his seat for the full hour, let alone talk with him. His suit was a three piece; the jacket and slacks were a pure white, the straps a bold, deep red that strung up and over his shoulders. He wore a cream velvet waist coat underneath that, complete with polished silver buttons, along with a pink regular shirt. Right down to his loafers, everything was crystal white. The sickening dazzle was not only distracting, but incredibly frustrating. John was amazed that a man such as Dr Montgomery could keep it so immaculately clean whenever he visited.

But on top of that were his habits and looks. A shiny bald patch adorned his scalp, and the hair was combed down around the sides, the once fair colour now greying and falling away. He had a hooked nose, the skin mottled slightly. His eyes were always baggy, black rings encircling the bottom eyelid. His teeth were yellowed by years of smoking. The reason why John thought of him as old fashioned was not just because of the man's ideology and idiolect, but also because of his smoking habit. Dr Montgomery was in charge of a private counselling firm, so he could do as he pleased, which seemed even to go beyond the common ethics of the workplace. He smoked cigars; fat, stubby, cheap cigars.

He would often cut one, right there and then in front of John and light it without a care in the world, but with utter disregard for John's welfare and health. On occasions, he would puff mightily from it, leaning back in his chair and billowing smoke in heavy, dirty clouds above them. That simple habit alone made John want to snatch the inexpensive roll of tobacco and stub it out right in front of him, and then berate him with absolute disgust. But he couldn't, because Dr Montgomery always kept the cigar far out of reach, and would greedily breathe the smoke within minutes of lighting it.

John, on the other hand, thought of himself as the complete opposite to the doctor – well, he liked to think that anyway. His hair was fair, glossy and of medium length so that it hung across his forehead and around his ears. He had his father's eyes, a light hazel hue. His skin tone was slightly darker than most, similar to that of a tan. John's dad had always told him he looked like his mother sometimes, and would then say nothing more on the matter. He still didn't know what had happened to her to this day; he supposed now he would never know.

He liked to wear casual clothes; jeans, tee shirts and hoodies. Anything that he thought looked good, regardless of the fashion. Adelaide would always scorn him for buying clothes she thought were inappropriate, not that he would listen. In the end, she couldn't care less what he did with his life so long as he was happy. It was what had made him keep up the extreme sports his dad had gotten him into, and to stay fit with American Kick Boxing. He was quite adept, and it had been one of the things his dad had shown any real pride in. He kept it up in honour of his elusive father.

John brought himself back to the office, noticing the conceited look smeared across the doctor's face.

"I _will_ find a way," he repeated gritting his teeth, reassuring anyone but himself.

"Oh you will, will you?" Dr Montgomery said, the rhetorical question verging on a jibe, "Well then, suppose this hypothetical situation to be true; where will you start with your 'investigation'?" He sat back smugly; crossing his legs again as he waited to hear John's plan to go about his father's case.

"With official records; I can trace back the paper trail to his death and then work my way from there." John tried his best to sound confident, but Montgomery had caught him out. He'd already looked into the case as best he could, but there was nothing to be found. Did he really expect to simple walk into Scotland Yard and demand to truth? The doctor picked up on the uncertainty swiftly, as thought picking up a stitch in a fine tapestry,

"You don't sound so sure," he pointed, "And your fidgeting around like you don't want to be here – more so than usual. You have absolutely no clue as to what you aim to achieve once you get on British soil. I strongly advise against this." He snatched up the letter from his desk, waving it around in his big, hairy paw, "This is nonsense; poppycock. You are an incredibly silly boy if you hope this will be of any good to you. Months of my time, work and effort wasted for a brat like you."

"Months of my guardian's benefits wasted on a creep like you," John counteracted, "This is what I want to do, doctor – if I can really call you that. You're supposed to be supporting me, not degrading my every action." Dr Montgomery spluttered for an answer,

"Now you very well know that to be untrue," he stiffened in his chair, "I have been nothing but kind and helpful to you over this past year. It is extremely impolite to then start accusing me of neglecting my role in your recovery."

"What recovery?" John said, blankly, "I never needed to recover. There's something wrong with my Dad's death; and I'm going to find out what."

With that, John rose out of his seat, glaring steadily into Montgomery's eyes. He'd had enough; it was time to leave.

"Well, I wish you the best of luck with your escapade," the doctor chortled, "But I doubt you're going to find very much."

"We'll see."

John turned on his heel, and strode out the door. He slammed it shut, just for good measure. Inside the office, a few of the framed degrees shook a little, and Montgomery stared at the blank white door. Seconds passed before he took out a stubby cigar, cut, and lit it, and then promptly began inhaling the foul smoke. He sighed in content, before pressing it back between his lips and nursing it with small little breaths whilst he carried on with signing paperwork. His hand fell upon John's letter, but without a second thought, he picked it up and threw it into the shredder set beside his foot.

The grinding of paper and metal filled the office only for a few brief moments before all that was left were the cars driving by, and the scribbling of a pen.

**Thanks for reading. I don't know whether to continue this or not. I'll probably have to, but I'd like to see the reaction I get to ponder how much effort to put in. **

**The more reviews, the more effort. Simple as that. Anyhoo, I'd better be off.**

**Thanks - K9**


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